


Where I Cannot Stand

by Polly_Lynn



Category: Castle, Firefly
Genre: Awkward Sexual Situations, F/M, Humor, Roleplay, Sexual Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-09
Updated: 2014-06-09
Packaged: 2018-02-03 23:11:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1759321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polly_Lynn/pseuds/Polly_Lynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It's Valentine's Day and he is <em>good </em>at this. He's always been good at this until today. Today, he hates himself."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where I Cannot Stand

They're sitting side by side on the bed, thighs practically touching, and it feels like there's an ocean between them.

It's Valentine's Day and he hates himself. Not a passing thing. He _really_ hates himself. Because she is so beautiful— _so_ beautiful—and she did this for him. Came up with the idea on her own. And the detail . . . the tail end of the leather necklace trailing like a sigil down and down in between her breasts. The close-fitting pants and the buckles on her boots and the _hair._ Natural curl like he almost never gets to see it. Spiraling madly into a single knot at the nape of her neck and the tendrils reaching out from there. God, the _hair._

It's meticulous. It must have taken her forever to pull it all together, and she must have . . . oh, _God,_ she must have. She did _research_ for him, and he doesn't think he has ever heard anything so hot in his _life_. He wishes the loft were on a higher floor because he would jump out the window right now.

It's Valentine's Day and he is _good_ at this. He's always been good at this until today. Today, he hates himself.

"Kate . . ." He can't look at her, and she caves in on herself a little more. Just for a second. That's all she'll allow herself, but it's enough. It's too much. He snags her fingers and presses them against his lips. "Kate . . . I don't . . ."

"It's not me, right?" Her voice is loud and it surprises both of them. They blink at each other, and he realizes that she's worried. She's not angry or righteously annoyed. She's actually _worried._

He wraps himself around her and closes his eyes and that's better. Whatever the hell is going on with him is better. "Kate . . ."

"Because you can tell me if it is." It's quieter this time, but it's still well toward the blurting end of the spectrum, and he tightens his arms around her until she makes an inelegant sound, struggling for breath. He lets go a fraction. A fraction.

"It is _not_ you," he says against her ear. He opens his mouth to say something else, but her fingers are closing around his ear and she's pulling their faces apart to glare at him.

"Castle, if you say 'it's me' . . ."

He stops her mouth with his. She struggles with him a minute, but he won't let up. He buries his fingers in the mass of hair at the nape of her neck and his tongue trips along the arc of her lower lip, and she lets go. She kisses him back for a long moment, but they're both too off kilter for it to last.

He pulls back and keeps his eyes on her face. That's safe enough. "Are you done?"

"Done?" She looks annoyed and that is tremendously reassuring under the circumstances. Annoyed is 100% delightful at this juncture.

"Are you done . . ." He pauses to kiss the tip of her chin. "Being a crazy person? Because it is _obviously_ not you, and I was not going to say 'it's me'."

She shoves him away with an annoyed grunt, but her teeth scrape along his jaw as he goes and it's ok. No, it's not ok, but it will be. He'll make it ok.

"It's . . . her." He leans back and gestures along the length of her body. Shoulder to knee and it's so wrong and he _hates_ himself.

"Her?" She blinks at him. "The character? But I thought . . ."

"I know," he says quickly. "You would think. _I_ thought. I definitely thought. Many times I thought, but . . ."

His face collapses. All of him collapses. What is _wrong_ with him?

She reaches for his hand. Takes her time lacing their fingers together and he thinks about it. He thinks and thinks and he has _no_ reasonable explanation for it. At all. But it's not going away.

"But . . ." she says and the tiniest quaver in her voice shoots him right back into panic. Right back.

"I mean, she is _hot_. Fierce and strong and sexy and terrifying and _hot_ and . . ." The words keep on pouring out of his mouth and the muscle is jumping at the corner of her jaw and he is making this _worse._ He is making this _so. much. worse._ But he can't stop himself.

She does it for him.

"Castle!"

She tightens her fingers around his and his hand is like a hundred times the size of hers and it shouldn't hurt but it _does._

" _Ow!_ Jeeze, Kate!"

"Maybe that's enough about her," she says evenly, though her teeth aren't making it very far apart. "Maybe we can move on."

_Oh. Right._ She's _worried._ Because he's such a jackass he's turned into her into a crazy person who worries about _that._ Temporarily turned her into a crazy person. Temporarily. He hopes.

"Move on." He straightens up. "Right. Just . . . it is _not_ you. I can't stress that enough. _Not!"_

She nods. Lifts her eyebrows like she's waiting. Like she wants to believe him and he takes it all in again.

She is wearing _a leather jerkin that laces up the sides_ , for the love of God, and this should be working for him like nothing has ever worked for him before ever in the history of things working for him. And a _lot_ of things work for him. Crazy good imagination: Membership has its privileges.

It should _work_.

He kisses her again and it's all going well at first. Really well. Splendidly even, right up until she makes a sudden move. Until she swings one thigh over his lap and his fingers are tugging at her laces and there it is again. He recovers instantly, but not instantly enough. She's off his lap in a second and _why is this happening?_

"It's like she's my buddy," he says miserably. Miserably enough that she bites back whatever she was about to say because she is obviously the most patient, kind-hearted woman in the world and it's Valentine's Day, and he _hates_ himself. "Like . . . Esposito or Ryan . . ."

It's out before he can stop it and his eyes fly open wide. He flinches back, but she's not coming for him. For some reason she is not hell bent on doing him bodily harm and he is going to seize that moment, thank you very much. "Lanie! Lanie is a _much_ better analogy."

"Lanie," she says flatly, but the corner of her mouth twitches and he thinks . . . he thinks she's starting to find this funny and that's _completely_ unfair, because he is in _crisis_ here, but in the interests of surviving the night, he'll take it. He'll take funny.

"Lanie," he says evenly. "Lanie is a beautiful woman. A _very_ beautiful woman. Really, I mean, you _know_ this . . ."

"Yes, Castle. Beautiful. My _best friend_ is beautiful. Did you have a point here?" She crosses her arms over her chest and . . . _ooh._ Point. Yes.

"A point. Yes. I have a point. Lanie is very beautiful . . ." he holds up a hand as her eyes narrow. "But she's my friend. My buddy. And I would never . . . I couldn't ever . . . I don't even . . ."

He trails off as he realizes it's true. It's totally true and kind of appalling. No, not appalling, but . . . really? Not even in passing? A stray thought or fleeting . . . and _no._ Absolutely no.

His attention snaps back to Kate and he suddenly wonders what look he has on his face. Not a good one, judging from the look on hers.

" . . . so I obviously notice that Lanie is beautiful and sexy and this is the last time her name will ever— _ever_ —come up in this bedroom, because she's my _buddy_ and she's terrifying in completely the wrong way, and just . . . no."

She lets him sweat a little and that's more than fair. It's more than fair and she kisses him hard right after, so he's feeling pretty grateful. Really pretty grateful when her mouth travels to his ear and her tongue flicks out and it takes him a minute to register that there are words. There are words.

"So . . . _so,_ we have other options, right?" She nips at his neck. "There's the . . ."

"Don't say mechanic!" It takes him a full five seconds to realize it's his voice. He hasn't heard his own voice in that particular octave in easily three decades.

Her forehead falls against his shoulder. He hates himself a little more. But her body is loose and her hands are roaming over him. She's having fun with this. At least someone is.

"Baby sister, right?"

"Gorgeous, sexy baby sister . . ." His mouth is definitely working for someone else right now. For the forces of evil.

" _Castle!"_ She tugs his hair, hard enough to really hurt, and that's fair, too. That is 100% fair.

"I know . . ." he groans against her neck. "I mean I don't know. I don't know what's wrong with me."

She leans back on her heels. It makes her taller than him. Places her leather-clad chest right in his face and he wishes for a lightning strike or a bomb threat or an ice cream headache. _Something._

"Castle," she says a again and waits for him to look up. "The other one? The . . ."

"Companion?" he supplies helpfully. Not helpfully. Definitely not helpfully, because he just saw—he just _saw_ —all the ways she's going to make him pay for that flashing in her eyes.

"Space hooker. Yeah. Not an option. Are we clear?"

"Clear. Very clear," he says immediately.

She leans back further and drops one foot to the floor with a sigh. "I'm gonna get out of this."

His face must fall, because she stops and looks like she is really, _really_ sorry that she just kicked his puppy. But it's him. He's the puppy kicker. The Valentine's Day Puppy Kicker.

He looks up at her and he means to apologize. But her hair is starting to come loose from the knot and she's _so_ beautiful. And in that moment, it's all her. It's just her.

"Wait," he says and he catches her wrist as she reaches for the laces. "Wait." He says it again and presses a kiss to the heel of her hand.

He reaches for the necklace. Lets his fingers trace the edge of the vest and takes his time fishing it out the tail end from underneath. He studies it a moment. Figures out how it works and slides the knot down until one side comes free.

She's still. There's wariness. In her shoulders and the stubborn angle of her chin. She's _still_ worried, but he's back on solid ground again. He hates it, but it makes him laugh a little now. He's not looking for high ledges or fast-moving trains.

"Castle." There's a note of pleading, and he can tell it pisses her off. He presses a kiss to her cheek and squeezes one shoulder. He goes back to work.

The first coil is the toughest. He's still working out where it falls on her neck and the hair—the _hair_ is complicating things. She squirms a little. Makes an irritated noise, so he kisses her again. On the mouth, this time and she hardly resists at all.

Everything comes together then. His lips and her tongue and his fingers know exactly what path to take. Another coil comes free and he pauses. Works one hand underneath her hair and finds it. A pin or clip or something that follows a figure-eight path. He understands exactly how it works, somehow, and it comes free.

It comes free and her hair is spilling over her shoulders. Wild and bright around her face and he kisses her harder. Her hands are under his collar and it's a tight space. It's trickier to work at the necklace like this, but she's not worried anymore. Not worried right now and he's damned if he'll let her move one inch further away.

And everything is coming together anyway. Everything is right and certain and perfect. He eases two fingers underneath the remaining coils of the necklace and pulls on the end. The leather hisses over his nails. Over her skin, but it's soft and supple and she sucks in an urgent breath. She's kissing him then, and his buttons are a thing of the past all of a sudden.

She seems glad about that. Really glad, and when he opens his eyes there's just the riot of her hair as her head darts here and there and her teeth land in all sorts of interesting places and she's making his job a lot harder. He's fine with that. He is _just_ fine with that. The last coil slips free and the necklace is a disorganized mess wrapped around the palm of his hand. The sight of it makes him crazy happy for some reason.

Not _some_ reason. A very particular reason. He has an idea. He claws the necklace free and dumps it wherever. He needs both hands for this. Both hands and maybe a cup, because things are going really well right now, but _Jesus_ has he fucked this whole thing up. He goes for it anyway.

He plants one hand on each side of her waist and lifts her off him. She goes from very invested in marking her territory to outraged in less than a second and . . . _ow_. Boots. He's holding her a few inches off the floor and that gives her and those _boots_ absolutely free rein to kick the crap out everything below the waist.

He pushes himself up, knowing that he'll regret that particular move in a number of ways, but he makes it. He's on his feet for as long as it takes to toss her—yes, _toss_ her, because he is a river flowing with bad ideas today—on to the middle of the bed.

" _Kate!"_ It's hoarse, but apparently commanding or something, because she freezes a millimeter from landing a particularly debilitating kick _just_ below the waist. He falls over her. Catches himself on his forearms and he is definitely too old for this, but he will die before letting her know that. Quite possibly literally.

"Kate. Shhhhh." He runs the tip of his tongue over the curve of her ear and he thinks she's saying something about fairness but her hands are tugging his t-shirt up his sides and he really has other things on his mind.

"Shhhh," he says again and kisses her until he's sure that kicking has tumbled way down on her to do list. He pushes himself up, then, and she is not a fan. Not at _all_ a fan, but he coaxes her back down to the bed and makes his way down her body.

His palms hit the leather of her vest and he's not quite out of the woods yet. He moves on quickly and he knows she knows, but she settles. Stretches her arms up over her head and fixes him with her best _What now?_ look.

He risks a smirk, because his hands are already working at the buckles of her boot, and he doesn't know how he knows this. Each has a tricky little mechanism, but they fall open under his fingers. One by one and he's not even really looking. He supposes it's just that it's about time one damned thing went right.

He sinks back on his knees and slides a palm under her calf. He feels the muscles ripple and he knows she's curling and uncurling her toes and he wants to laugh. He wants to tease her about it, but it's way too soon for that. He's not out of the woods yet, so he just presses a kiss to her knee and slides the boot free.

He's about to dump it behind him without a second look when it catches his eye. How could it not? A rainbow striped sock. Brighter than _anything_ he has seen her wear _ever_ and _oh_ he has some questions about where these came from, but he's impatient now. He works at the other boot and the magic is still with him. He's the opposite of deft, but the buckles come undone and he's staring at a matched set.

They're tall, stretching up well beyond the middle of her calf, but they're not quite tall enough. Or the pants aren't long enough. She has far more than her fair share of leg, of course. Either way, there's a pale, inviting slip of skin and his fingers are trailing over and over it.

"Castle . . ."

It takes him a minute to register his name. Maybe more than a minute, because she's up on her elbows and her hair his wild and gorgeous and everywhere and more than a little scary. _She's_ more than a little scary.

"Busy?" She arches an eyebrow at him. Definitely more than a little scary. "Because I can go, you know."

"Mmm, no." He closes one hand around her calf and slides it down to her heel, taking the brightly colored sock with it. He straightens her knee and brushes a kiss over the inside of her ankle. He thinks a minute, then clarifies. "I mean, yes, I'm busy. But I need you for this."

She glares at him, but he knows it's the right answer. "You sure about that?"

"Positive," he says as he strips off the other sock. He smooths them out and folds them over. He sets them on the nightstand and meets her glare again. Oh, there _will_ be a conversation about those.

She lets it go. She knows what he's thinking, but she lets it go. Good news for him. "So what is this you need me for?"

He raises up on his knees and drags his body up over hers, his nose, fingers, lips, and teeth landing wherever along the way. "Writing a story."

"Oh," she gives him an exaggerated pout. "Your department. You don't need me for that."

She flips on to her stomach and _God_ , she's _fast_. She's wriggled most of the way out from under him before he's even had time to appreciate that thing she was just doing with her lower lip and _Hey!_

She's fast, but he's big. He lays as much of his weight as he dares on the backs of her thighs and while that's pissing her off, he manages to get one arm under her waist. He works his way up her body while she's still picking out her favorite curse, but it's too late, because he knows about _that_ spot on her neck and _this_ one right here and he eases most of his weight off her and she's not going anywhere.

"Definitely need you, Kate," he says as his fingers find the laces at her side. As the knot slips free and his whole hand works under the vest and up her ribs. "Definitely need you for all kinds of things."

He fits her against him, back to front and never lets his hand come to rest. She makes herself long and tries not to let him have his way, but it's hopeless. Her ribcage rises up, and her breast finds its way into his palm and then it's gone again. Down and circling her hip. Circling lightly around her navel, and she gives up. She lets her body follow.

"What kind of story?" she asks grudgingly. After a while. She means it to be grudging, anyway, but there's a little whimper in the middle, because the shirt underneath the vest is all hooks and eyes and his hands are his very best friends right now and there's skin on skin.

He spreads his fingers wide. His palm glances over one nipple, then the other, and one of them is gasping. Maybe both of them. Both of them sounds right. "Umm . . ."

" 'Umm'. Fascinating," she says and it's confident. Cocky. It's a warning.

His free hand wanders back to the half open lacing. He finds the loose end and tugs, and by some miracle the whole thing comes out with a sinuous sigh. He has her by the shoulder and rolls her to face him.

"Adventure story," he says as he works on the laces on the other side. "Warrior woman. Maybe in space. Maybe not."

She's getting restless and he can't have that. The other laces come free just as easily as the first set. He slips a hand under her shoulder and raises her off the bed. Their lips come together and part of him can't help thinking what a ridiculous picture they must make. Ready for the close-up on the cover of some bodice ripper. Not that he's complaining. Not that he can remember what he might have even wanted to complain about.

The neck of the vest is wide and he slips it up over her head. Her hair rises with it and he tosses the leather aside and she's there. Kate, but someone else, too. A character. A warrior woman for him.

The thought has him—holds him still—for maybe five seconds. Maybe less, but it's enough. He's on his back and she's on him and all he can really see is two silver lines looming over him. Hooks to one side, eyes to the other, and he is going to break into her apartment, steal every single blouse she owns and have all the buttons replaced with these, because they are _fantastic_.

_She_ is fantastic. And _efficient_ all of a sudden. He's pretty sure he had shoes. And a belt, didn't he? And she's digging her knees into his sides and somehow pulling his pants down his legs behind her back and wouldn't there have to be two of her for that to make _any_ sense?

Apparently sense has no place here, because he is undeniably down to his boxers and that is completely unfair. He takes a firm hold on the high-waistband of her pants and tugs. She sways back and jerks upright to correct and then she's falling over him and _Ha!_ He knew that whole pants move had to be harder than it looked.

She looks like she might have some choice words about that, but he's not interested at the moment, because these pants? These pants are _tight._ These pants make the skinniest of her skinny jeans look like baggy 80s refugees, and apparently things get interesting with the addition of just one little finger tip under the waistband.

_Like so._

He goes for two. One on either side of the fly and her head drops back and her mouth is moving, and that might have been a question or a really filthy insult or some kind of dark incantation. It'll keep. He's busy.

He lets his fingers wander from side to side and takes his time with the button on the inside tab. _That_ was definitely an insult, but she also has a hold on his wrist that strongly suggests he'll pull it back minus digits if it strays from its current course.

He closes his teeth around the crest of her shoulder and the inside button slips free. The top outside follows and another and another he thinks she might miss the close confines until his fingers travel over the curve of her ass and his nails ruck up under the very edge of her underwear.

She rocks her hips from side to side and the pants get further and further away and it's none of his concern because she's down to these tiny green panties and a mismatched bra and all those little hooks and eyes and she's rocking against _him._

"Tell me," she says, and when he's done listing H. G. Wells novels in reverse chronological order, he realizes it's not the first time she's said it. "Tell me about her."

She slows her movements and for a second he's relieved. Then it's low and tight and intense and he is _not_ relieved at all. Relieved is no way to be right now.

"She's . . . cantankerous," he gasps out. It works. She stops moving and pulls back and looks adorable and confused and so so _so_ hot. "Ornery."

She repeats after him. "Cantankerous. Ornery."

Ok, so now _that's_ backfiring, but how could he possibly have known that those words in her mouth would sound like that. Other than the fact that everything sounds like that in her mouth. And he is going to stop thinking about things in her mouth immediately.

"She kicks." It's not a gasp this time. It's a suggestion. A thought he's actually rolling around in his mind because he's kind of writing this thing now. Sort of.

"Maybe she's surrounded by people who need kicking. Maybe it's not about her." She emphasizes her point with another sinfully slow rotation of her hips, but he remembers now. This is how this works. Part of his brain writes and there are no embarrassing . . . episodes of relief.

He tips his head back and grazes the inside of her breast with his teeth. She yelps a little. She's not prepared for it. He must have been out of the game for longer than he thought. Time to fix that. He lets one hand drop to the back of her thigh and spreads his fingers wide.

The barest brush between her legs is enough to convince him that this is simultaneously the best and worst idea he's ever had. He almost certainly whimpers, but she's too caught up in a long, filthy groan to notice.

"No," he says lazily when she finally falls quiet. When she very pointedly does _not_ arch her hips back against his hand. "It's her. Trauma."

Her hand— _where did even that_ come _from?_ —finds a nipple and tweaks. Hard. _Ow. Right._ Warrior woman.

"Trauma." She growls it in his ear and uses her teeth. "Boring."

She has to pay for that. _Boring_. His fingers close around her thigh, fixing her against him, and his thumb drags the drenched fabric of her panties out of the way and _God_. She's wet and hot and her hips are moving in these tight, furious arcs. As much as she can manage with the hold he has on her and she's straining toward his fingers, and _one_ of them is certainly paying for it.

He recovers. He's still writing. The trauma now. He drops his other hand from hip to thigh and shifts his hold. She arches against him once. Hard. But the fingers of his other hand are quick. Circling and tracing and not dipping in just yet.

"Not boring," he says when she finally gives in. When she falls into his rhythm and he slips a finger inside and out again and again. When she waits for him to work at her clit with his thumb. "It's a good one."

She laughs or tries to, but something seems to be . . . distracting her.

"A _good_ trauma," she manages eventually. Sarcasm and everything even when she's this close. Even when he can feel her starting to shake already and he slips a second finger inside to hurry things along.

"Interesting," he whispers. "Unusual. Intriguing. Titillating trauma."

The words are window dressing. For her at least. She's too far gone and _loud,_ but he loves this. He loves the way quiet words feel against her skin, whether she hears him or not.

She falls on to him. Sloppy and utterly relaxed and curling herself into him like she almost never does and he loses the story a while. That's ok. That's fine. This one is better. It's so much better.

"Titillating?" she cracks open one eye the instant she has her breath back and he blushes.

_Oh._ Maybe not window dressing. Not this time. Maybe not a lot of times. Maybe she hears him. The thought curls a fist in his stomach. Excitement and a little terror. He says a lot of things. A _lot_ and he can think of half a dozen right away that might get him killed for reasons that range far and wide. And maybe he should banish those things to the cornfield before he gets himself into trouble right here and now.

"Titillating," he says against her lips. He slides a hand up from her hip to work a bra strap off one shoulder. He'd like the whole thing gone, but he loves those little hooks and and can't bear to see them go, too. "Terrifying."

He wraps an arm around her and holds her to him as he shimmies down a little. He nudges the fabric of her bra carelessly aside and makes a long, slow tour of her nipple with his tongue. He draws it into his mouth and feels her palm at the back of his head, pressing him closer. He obliges for a while, but the story catches him and he blurts out something terrible. "There's no coffee."

" _What?_ "

It's so sharp—so sudden and _angry_ —that one hand flies to his ear like she might have cut him. Like she might have actually _cut_ him and he realizes his mistake. "Trauma. _Fictional_ trauma. There is coffee _here._ Plenty of coffee. Ample coffee. But the warrior woman comes from a world without coffee."

It doesn't help. At all. She yanks at his hair and it's nothing more than cutting off her nose to spite her face. Or something. Whatever. His mouth. Her body parts. They were all on the same page and now she's all scowling down at him and her _hair._ It radiates out from her face he swears he can see sparks. _Yikes._

He swallows hard and that seems to satisfy her. A little. She eases up on the yanking a little anyway. "Take it back."

"What?" He grins. He can't help it. _Take it back?_

She does not grin. That is anything but a grin. She lets go of his hair entirely and it's no relief at all because she heads directly for the waistband of his boxers.

"Take it back," she repeats and she's sliding down his body and his boxers just, like, _disappear_.

He cranes his neck to look down at her and she's crouched next to one hip and the very tip of her tongue is peeking out from under her top lip, and if that's a grin it should come with some kind of warning label and a comprehensive evacuation plan.

"No." He tries it out. It's probably stupid. It's _definitely_ stupid. She's looming over what is certainly in their mutual top 5 favorite body parts with that _grin_ or whatever it is, and he's telling her no?

Her teeth sink into his hip and he takes it as confirmation. _Definitely stupid._

"Castle." She waits for him to look at her, and he feels her fingernails sink into his inner thigh, and what is _wrong_ with him that he keeps forgetting that she has hands. _Deadly_ hands. She shows him her teeth. "Take it back."

"No?" He hears himself say it. He hears the question mark. He hears every single thing that's wrong with it in the second before she sinks her mouth over him and then he doesn't hear anything.

She's slow. Of course. Agonizingly slow and hot and wet and she has to let up some time. She _has_ to. He grits his teeth and finds a mass of her hair in his fist and _God._ She is not of the opinion that she has to let up. This is a hill she is going to die on. He's going to die on.

There is going to be dying very, _very_ shortly, because her tongue is amazing and her hands are everywhere, and it's not like he didn't know that she is _exquisitely_ talented at this—all of this—but this _. . . . this._

Maybe this isn't Kate at all. Maybe this is his warrior woman and _that_ line of thinking is exactly the kind of thing that. _Does. Not. Help._

"I take it back. ItakeitbackItakeitbackItakei tback."

She doesn't let up. Not right away. She sinks deeper, and every particle of light exits the room at the same time, but she works her way back up and lets go with an emphatic pop and he does not cry. He is not _crying_ with relief— _lack_ of relief—or with anything else, because he's not crying, because that's _stupid. Would_ be stupid.

Whether he's crying or not—whatever he's doing or not doing—she's too busy to notice. She's far too busy clambering up his body and her underwear are gone and the little hooks and little eyes aren't and _oh,_ he wants to kiss her. He loves the hooks and eyes.

He wants to kiss her, so he does and she sinks down on to him and he whimpers into her mouth. Her mouth, which _feels_ like it's burning against his, but it's nothing— _nothing_ —like the heat inside her.

She starts out slow. Hips rising and falling a long way. A long way, but she's impatient and thank _God_ for that. She's impatient and tight and now she's hardly going anywhere. Now it's a low, careless grind and his hands are in her hair and his teeth are getting him into all kinds of trouble.

Trouble down the line, though, because she's swearing through her teeth and waiting for something and _the hell_ with that. He ducks his head and finds a nipple. Sucks hard and uses his teeth and the curses get more interesting. A _lot_ more interesting right before she shudders around him and his back arches and he presses into her. Tighter and harder and there goes all the light again.

All the light and air and energy are gone from him and she's curling into him again. So it's not just him.

_Good. That's good,_ he thinks as his eyes drift shut.

Hers don't. He knows it, but he just needs a second. A minute. A while.

"I don't like her," she says, long before he's in any shape to trade any kind of barbs with her. "Her and her _trauma,_ whatever it is."

She underlines the last part. Yes, she's speaking and underlining is theoretically off the table. But not for Kate Beckett. Not for his warrior woman.

It grabs him. The story. It grabs him again, and his eyes pop open.

"It's not trauma," he says, and his tongue darts out to taste the salty skin over her collar bone. "You were right."

She snorts, but she's surprised. Pleased. "Of _course_ I'm right."

She waits for it. He makes her. Because he's stupid. She tweaks a nipple again and every muscle in his body turns to him and says _What the hell?_

"They deserve it," he says. "The kicking."

" _All_ of them?" She kisses his temple thoughtfully. Like the idea pleases her, but she doesn't quite believe it.

"Where she is now, they do." He leaves it out there for her and she takes it.

"Where she is _now?_ "She bites her lip. She's excited. Into it. He almost hates to ruin it. _Almost._

He scoots up the bed and rests his head on the pillow. Pulls her with him and she curls around him again and that makes three and this the best day ever, Valentine's or otherwise.

"She was kidnapped," he says, low and mysterious and she knows something's up. That's good. That's probably good.

"Kidnapped. And that's not trauma?"

He tilts his head to the side. Acknowledges the point. "It's trauma. But everyone she kicks deserves it. So it's not trauma-based kicking."

"Or cantankerousness," she adds.

"Mmm." Oh, _God_ he's tired, but how does she _do_ that? He kisses her. "Or that. Not trauma-based that."

"Where was she kidnapped _from_?" she asks slowly. She _definitely_ knows something's up.

He reaches out for the night table and grabs the socks. She flies at him, but he holds them high over his head and talks fast. "The rainbow planet. Where everyone is fun and good and nice. So she knows how the world _should_ be and she's kicking this _other_ world into shape. THE END."

She gets her hands on him. Them. The socks and some vulnerable areas and he hands them over. The socks. She throws them aside and where the _hell_ she finds the energy for the assault is way beyond him, but she's digging her thumb into the spot on his hip and the other one right by his belly button, the only two places he's remotely ticklish and he surrenders.

"Beckett! Beckett, I lied." He squirms away. As far away as he can without falling off the bed, but only because that's his next move. "I lied. There's no warrior woman."

She digs in. "No warrior woman?"

He looks up, desperate. Then he gets it. He reaches for her. Pulls her mouth down to his. "One. One warrior woman. My warrior woman."

"Damned straight."

* * *

A/N: So . . . I only caught up with Reality Star Struck last night and I was tweeting a bit as I watched.

During the, ahem, _climactic_ interrogation scene, I happened to tweet: "Oh, Castle. I think Beckett Cosplaying Zoe might be your Valentine's Day present."

To which lindosaur replied: "please? i didn't know i wanted this until just now..."

And then OliviaJRowe replied: "oooh, I want this, too."

And then it was in my head, but all TWISTED, because that is what my brain does.

Ahem. The story itself has no actual spoilers for 5 x 14, but I suppose this note has very vague ones.

  



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